A Place You Can't Scratch
by Bonzai-Bunny
Summary: It all started with an itch and Russia wasn't sure if he could take it. M for a reason. Kink-meme de-anon.


Warning: rape, insanity

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia

Authoress Note: Well, I de-anoned this on the main comm, so I figured why not here? The original request was for Russia raping Lithuania BUT with him having a valid psychological reason for doing so, also in his POV. OP never responded, so I don't know if I got it right. I can only hope. I promise you, though, this isn't your typical rapetruck!Russia.

- - - o 0 o- - -

It all started with an itch.

No, it wasn't a literal itch, which would have been fine because Russia would have been able to scratch it, but it was more of a figurative one. It was a cold feeling placed between his shoulder blades that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It felt like someone was hovering over him, whispering against his neck that bad things were about to happen and Russia couldn't help but believe it. Bad things happened to him often, after all.

So there he was, sitting at his kitchen table, uneasily clutching a mostly empty bottle of vodka that he had personally drained (his second one of the night, actually). The house was silent; the only sound was seemingly his own breath and the perpetual ticking of an old clock, which only made him warier.

Russia was about to bring the bottle to his lips for one last swig when he heard it. A loud _bang!_ echoed through the mansion and Russia nearly lost his grip on the bottle, startled.

Paranoia immediately surged through him, and he grabbed his gun out of his coat pocket, eyes open to any sort of intruder. To his fraying, intoxicated, mind the bang sounded like a gunshot and if there was one thing Russia hated, he _hated_ to be shot at.

With one finger hovering above the trigger, he got up, gun in and hand, and began to wander to the direction that he thought he heard the gunshot from.

He happened upon Lithuania, who was scrambling to pick up broken pieces of something, but none of that mattered to Russia because the itching feeling was back and it was back tenfold. He gripped his gun tighter, feeling that thing hovering above his shoulder, telling him that this was wrong, that this was all very wrong, and something bad was going to happen. The cold prickling of his skin made him feel an ominous aura in the room and that it was _Lithuania_ who was all wrong.

It didn't make sense, he knew it didn't, but he was overwhelmed with the fear that when Lithuania turned around, his eyes would be different, cold, and that somehow Lithuania wasn't the person standing in front of him. A shiver grew up his spine at the very thought as he was suddenly reminded of old folklore of demons and the closer he stepped to Lithuania, the more his mind whispered that this wasn't him.

In fact, the more he thought about it, aided with the blurry logic of his drink, the more sense it made that this person wasn't Lithuania at all, because it would mean that it was him who fired the shot (never mind the fact that there wasn't a shot to begin with). This person was an imposter and the imposter was who had shot at him.

Yes, he reasoned, it was all this imposter's fault.

Lithuania froze when Russia pushed the barrel of the gun against his back. There was a pause.

"M-mr. Russia?"

Russia spun the other nation around and even in the dim lighting he could see that there was something off in the other's emerald eyes.

"Who are you?" He hissed, his eyes narrow.

"What?"

He pushed the gun up against the bottom of the imposter's chin.

"Who are you and why did you shoot at me?"

Russia mistook the terror in the other's eyes for the glint of conspiracy (he had many, many enemies after all).

"Speak!"

"I-I'm Lithuania, sir! And nobody fired anything!"

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying!"

Well, of course the imposter would try to deny it.

Russia frowned, thinking of how he could get the imposter to confess. Of course, there was always the small chance that the person was telling the truth, that this really was Lithuania, and it would do no good for Russia to just shoot him. Perhaps if the person could_ prove_ that they were Lithuania…

"If you aren't lying, then tell me something only Lithuania would know."

"Well," the other replied back slowly as though he were unsure what to say, "I-I have scars on my back."

"Anyone could know that," Russia pressed the gun up further.

"_No!_—no one but you and my brothers know. I-I'll show them to you," and with that, Lithuania quickly fumbled to unbutton his shirt, and turned around to show the other.

The scars were there; they were still dark slashes against his otherwise unsoiled, milky skin. Russia took the opportunity to run a gloved finger down his back, tracing them. He didn't think that the imposter would have thought far ahead enough to replicate the scars. This was harder than he thought it would be.

"How did you get the scars?"

Lithuania shivered. "You p—I fell onto a glass table and it broke."

Russia took notice of how Lithuania said he had fallen instead of Russia pushing him—which admittedly was what had happened. Russia didn't really remember _why_ he pushed the boy so hard, but they had been arguing and he was drunk.

He remembered watching, after the fall, as Lithuania frantically tried (Russia didn't realize when he first fell that glass was already embedded into his back) to put his hand beside him to push himself up, but his hand was impaled by a particularly large shard. Russia watched, fascinated, as the more Lithuania struggled in the sharp mess, the bloodier he became and the more he screamed. Finally, Russia helped him, helped him nurse his wounds that were, thankfully, mostly constricted to his backside.

"What happened after that?"

"You helped me up and tried to heal my cuts." The hand on Lithuania's back stilled.

"Why?"

"Because you—we love each other."

Russia smiled, satisfied at the answer, and how the itchy feeling was starting the numb.

"Do you remember the first time we made love?"

A pause.

"Y-yes."

"Tell me about it."

"It was a little while after my wounds healed and you told me I was precious and beautiful despite the scars and that you loved me, so I should stop thinking about Poland. Y-you told me that I loved you and that Poland couldn't have what we had and-and you suggested that we do what people in love do."

Russia turned Lithuania back around so he was facing him. He studied the brunet's face, still not recognizing the terror flickering over his expression. He frowned, unsatisfied, feeling the itch worming its way back over his shoulders.

"Your eyes are different," he took note of the other's flinch, "they're telling me that you don't love me, and Lithuania _does_ love me," he pressed the barrel of the gun against the other's stomach.

"No, that isn't true! I do love you, Mr. Russia!"

He pressed it harder and hissed, "Can you prove it?"

"Yes! I'll try, just—just please don't do this, Mr. Russia," he begged, teary-eyed, "I'll think of something."

Then suddenly, a miraculous idea occurred to Russia. He didn't know why it didn't come to him earlier. Of course there was a way for Lithuania to prove that he loved him.

"Will you make love with me again?"

There was a hesitation, then, "Yes, Mr. Russia….of-of course."

Russia smiled a sickly sweet smile, knowing that this was a win-win situation. He was positively gleeful. If this was the real Lithuania, then he would be able to prove it by being inside of him. He knew the feel, the touch of his lover and no imposter could possibly imitate that.

Without any warning, he pulled the nation closer to him and brought their lips together. Their teeth clacked, and it was sloppy, one-sided at first, but Lithuania eventually responded to the kiss, opening his mouth to allow Russia's tongue in.

Russia hummed, pleased, and broke the kiss.

"Undress."

He watched as Lithuania fumbled with the zipper and button of his pants before sliding them and his underwear down. Yes, he was very pleased to see the other's beautiful expanses of skin, even as he turned slightly away, ever so shy.

"You don't need to hide yourself from me," Russia giggled, tugging off his coat. "You know I'll love you no matter what."

Lithuania nodded, still avoiding his gaze which made Russia frown, but he didn't press it. He wondered if they should have gone upstairs instead, but decided against it; right there was good.

Russia took the other's hand and led him over to the couch, before gently pushing him down to the cushions. The other was so beautiful, Russia thought. He was really lucky to have someone who loved him as much as he loved them—that is, if this wasn't an imposter.

He was starting to believe more and more that he wasn't an imposter. Lithuania hadn't started to do anything weird yet, other than avoiding eye contact, but he did that sometimes, so Russia wasn't so much bothered as relieved that nothing bad had happened. The itching feeling was decreasing even, enough that Russia felt that he could put the gun on the ground. He then took off his gloves (he knew the other preferred his natural touch over leather) and planted kisses all over his body.

He roamed his hands all over, warming them up and accented them with even more kisses. He ran his tongue over a pink nipple, as his hand finally traveled down to Lithuania's thighs. Then he rubbed them, drawing his fingers closer and closer to the nation's manhood and wrapped a hand around the semi-erect organ.

Lithuania had his mouth clamped shut, but Russia knew how much pleasure the other was feeling and was looking forward to his noises when it intensified. He was anticipating feeling the brunet around him, and unzipped his pants, already half-hard. Reaching down with one hand to palm his growing erection through his underpants, he used the other to press a lube-less finger into the other's entrance, followed shortly by another.

The brunet squirmed, biting his lip, and Russia was reminded of their first time together. Lithuania had been shy, saying how much he didn't want it, but Russia knew better. He remembered the other's screams, screams of pleasure, and the tight heat that was surrounding his fingers now was like what he had felt then, only twice as tight.

And best of all, it felt right. He could almost think of the itch as good fortune, because it was bringing him and his lover together, nothing horrible like he thought it was first foreboding. He absolutely couldn't wait.

Russia pulled down his trousers and underwear revealing his erection, thick and wanting. Smiling, he removed his fingers before pulling the other's legs up to rest on his shoulders and aligning himself with the tiny, puckered entrance. Lithuania immediately clenched his eyes shut, and if Russia had been paying attention, he might have heard Lithuania's choked whisper of, _"Please, no,"_ but Russia didn't take notice.

He pressed down on Lithuania's hips and without hesitation, pushed in with a groan.

He relished in a tight, painfully tight, environment and all he knew was that this felt _right_. The itching was completely gone now and this encouraged him.

"Isn't this great, Lithuania?" He giggled.

The other didn't respond, but Russia didn't give him much of a chance, pulling out then pushing back in. It felt even better than before.

Eventually, he worked up a steady rhythm, enjoying the heat and tightness, pounding the smaller nation into the cushions. It was so great, so perfect, and felt so good. He knew Lithuania was enjoying it as much as he was; the little noises he made, the gasps and whimpers, were delicious to hear. Lithuania was in so much pleasure he had tears of joy streaming down his reddened cheeks.

The thought made Russia smile. The other was always so emotional when they did this, always crying, and Russia truly found it endearing, but he didn't like how the other always had his eyes closed, as if he didn't want to see Russia. And that didn't make sense, because Russia knew how much Lithuania loved him.

"Open your eyes," he gasped between thrusts, "I want to see them."

Lithuania slowly opened them, blinking away tears, and Russia rewarded him with a small kiss to his inner thigh, before bending the other's legs forward a little more to thrust in even deeper.

The brunet cried out, even more tears rolled down his face, as his hands reached out to claw at the cushions and Russia took that as a good sign. So he continued with that pace and angle, and thrust in again and again, until finally the heat became too much. He dug his fingers into Lithuania's hips and with one final, shuddering moan, he came.

Russia lowered the other's legs and wrapped a hand around Lithuania's limp cock. He pumped it (it would be rude of him to leave a partner so unfulfilled) and when he was satisfied at the other's orgasm, Russia pulled out and noted the blood on his dick, but he wasn't particularly bothered by it. It happened often when he and Lithuania made love, so he casually took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it off, before putting his clothing back on.

Proof had been given to him, and the itch was gone completely. He now knew that this was no imposter, but his love. Smiling, he knelt down, and pressed his lips to the other's warm forehead, so happy that it really was him.

"You're mine, and nothing can change that," he whispered, stroking his hair, and turned around, determined to head back to the kitchen and finish that second bottle. After picking up his gun, he left, completely and blissfully ignorant of the state of the nation behind him.

He didn't notice Lithuania curl into a ball and roll over so the red streaks on the back of his upper thighs were clearly visible. He didn't see Lithuania mash his hands into his already blood-shot eyes out of frustration and hatred. And Russia certainly didn't hear the terrified, pained sobs emitting from the pale and shivering form on the couch.

No, to him the house was silent. While sitting at his kitchen table, clutching a mostly empty bottle of vodka, he could only hear the silence, his own breathing, and the perpetual ticking of an old clock.


End file.
